The Incorrigible Optimists Club (32 page)

15

L
eonid made his way across Leningrad. In these late March days, a mild spell had turned the snow into blackish mud. The city was one gigantic construction site. Everything had been destroyed and had then been rebuilt in identical fashion. He had reached the huge Moskovskaïa Square and was walking in the direction of the House of the Soviets when he stopped. His legs were shaking and he could feel the throbbing at the base of his neck. He hesitated and turned round. He had pinned his twenty-seven decorations to his flight captain's uniform. They covered the left side of his chest and, on the right side he had attached the two gold stars he had been awarded as Hero of the Soviet Union. Passers-by stared at him warily. He sat down on the wall of the Griboedova Canal, which was frozen over.

On his return from London, he asked for leave and spent four days drinking as he had never drunk before. He drank vodka to try to drown the foul stench that was suffocating him. He had run out of eucalyptus oil and was unable to obtain any. Dimitri Rovine had vanished and no one knew his whereabouts. He knocked back half of a small bottle and began breathing again. For a few minutes, the smell of the vodka blotted out the stench of decay that gradually returned, gnawing and insidious. He took freezing cold showers, rubbed himself with a brush and coal tar soap until his skin turned red, before resorting to the one remedy that soothed him. He soaked a piece of material in vodka, shoved it under his nose and inhaled in short breaths until he felt giddy. He slumped, naked, onto his alcohol-drenched bed, with the windows open, and sank into a troubled sleep from which he was soon awoken by that foul smell.

On the morning of the fifth day, a knocking at the door dragged him from his nightmare. He got up with difficulty, put on a dressing gown and opened the door to a woman of about sixty. Her white hair protruded from a black scarf decorated with a multi-coloured floral pattern. Irina
Ivanovna Rovine introduced herself. He asked Dimitri's mother into his room. She sniffed and appeared not to notice anything.

‘I need your support, Leonid Mikhaïlovitch.'

He was flabbergasted when she told him of Dimitri's arrest. Three militiamen had come to look for him at the military hospital. For nineteen days, she had had no news. By chance, she had discovered that he was being held in the gloomy Kresty prison. She had spent a day sitting on a bench, waiting. A clerk from the Ministry for Internal Affairs had informed her that her son was liable under Article 58 without giving her any further details, except that it concerned a matter of State Security. Her attempts to find out more had hit a wall. Merely asking the question aroused suspicion. Dimitri's colleagues refused to become involved. The director of the hospital had unshakeable trust in officialdom and, since in this country people were not arrested without some reason, there must be one. If Rovine was suspected of treason and counter-revolutionary activity, it meant he was guilty. She had climbed dozens of staircases, knocked at hundreds of doors, told his story a hundred times over, but as soon as she mentioned the words ‘Article 58' the interview was brought to an end and she was sent to another department.

‘Dimitri described you to me as his best friend and told me that you were a hero decorated by comrade Stalin. I'm asking you to help us. I don't require any special favour. I want to know what he is accused of. If he has done something wrong, he must pay for it. But I'm convinced he is innocent. My son is not a traitor.'

‘I'm astonished by this accusation. During the war, Dimitri conducted himself in exemplary fashion. He was decorated with the Order of the Red Flag. I'm in a good position to know that this award is not given to just anybody. I can't imagine what treason he could be accused of. He spends his life in hospital looking after the sick conscientiously and with exceptional devotion. He's an unusually effective doctor. Without him, I don't know what would have become of me. Had he been a bad Soviet, I would have been aware of it. Tomorrow, I'm going to make some enquiries. If I get no answer, I'll go to Moscow to see the People's Commissar and, if necessary, I'll approach comrade Stalin in person. You can trust
me. I won't let him down. Dimitri is a great friend. I'm sure there's been a mistake.'

Irina rushed over to him, knelt down, clasped his hand and kissed it three times. He helped her to her feet. She was in tears. He took her in his arms and clasped her to him.

‘I promise you, Irina Ivanovna, Dimitri will soon be free.'

Men don't cry. Especially not heroes. Sitting on the canal wall, Leonid wept. He didn't wipe away his tears, and he was unconcerned by the passers-by who stared at this serviceman clad in a strange uniform covered in decorations. He thought of Milène. What was she doing? Was she at work or at home? Was she thinking of him? Could you love somebody yet part from him? He sniffed. The foul smell had disappeared. He stood up, determined to confront the security services of the House of Soviets. What was the purpose of arresting a man who had done nothing but care devotedly for others? He thought of their last meeting when he had told him of his love for Milène, and he shuddered. Supposing Rovine were to denounce him? Supposing he told them about his affair with this Frenchwoman and their secret meetings in London? What would they think? Would they not reckon that he was a traitor too? His military past and his medals would be worth nothing. People more highly decorated and ranked higher than he had been arrested and shot. Rovine would not betray him. Cowards don't wait, they denounce the whole world as soon as they are arrested and he would have been asked to account for himself as soon as he returned to Moscow. Leonid was a good bargaining weapon, a small fish for a big one. Could it perhaps have been Rovine's idea? Supposing it had occurred to him, deep in his loathsome Kresty prison cell, as a way of extricating himself? Who could say whether he would hold out? Whether he might not hand over his best friend or his brother if his life were at risk? Rovine knew of Leonid's connections. If he were to continue to remain in prison, would he not resent him for not standing up for him? What was the point of a friend if he didn't offer a helping hand when you needed it? Might Rovine not come to the conclusion that Leonid was a coward and that he could ditch him without any compunction? What would he do in his position?
If he had a hope of evading the MGB or the fearsome MVD? If it were me, I wouldn't give it a second thought, Leonid said to himself as he walked away. Who knew what he had done? People aren't arrested without a valid reason. No one can do anything for him where he is now. By intervening, I'll compromise myself. Each of us has a duty to save his own skin. He hasn't betrayed me yet, but sooner or later he will.

Leonid set off for the Aeroflot building and declared that he was ready to go back to work. He returned home and waited. Each time someone knocked at his door, he feared it might be militiamen. Rovine couldn't have resented him sufficiently to denounce him, or else he knew that this wasn't going to save him.

One morning, when he was getting ready to go out, he noticed Irina Rovine coming up the stairs. He went back inside his flat and let her ring the bell without opening the door. He had nothing to say to her. Five days later, he was given his orders. He was back on the London route. In his travelling bag, he packed his few belongings, that is to say virtually nothing. Three pieces of jewellery that had been left to him by his mother, three shirts, his decorations, his pilot's licence, his Leica, a stack of photographs, and the medals his father had been awarded during the Great War. Knowing he would never see the city again, he went for a last walk and strolled up and down the Nevsky Prospekt, which was cluttered with building sites, as far as the Anitchkov bridge whose four bronze horses had just been returned, then he arrived in Smolny. All that was left were the crumbling walls and the gutted onion domes. He could still picture it in its pre-war splendour.

At Moscow Airport, he met his crew again as though nothing had been amiss. From London, Leonid phoned Orly.

‘Milène, it's me.'

‘Leonid, I'm glad to hear you. How are you?'

‘I've not stopped thinking of you.'

‘Please, don't go on at me.'

‘I'm in London. I'm defecting to the West.'

‘What?'

‘I've made up my mind.'

‘It's crazy.'

‘I'm coming back to you. I want us to live together.'

‘Don't. I know you, you'll regret it.'

‘If you want me, I'll be the happiest man alive.'

‘You don't realize what'll happen.'

‘We'll make plans. We'll have a future. You'll have me with you every day and every night and not just on Tuesdays. Except when you don't want to.'

‘I don't know what to say.'

‘You're not going to let me go again? It's an opportunity for us. We deserve some happiness. Do you love me? Tell me what you think?'

Milène stared at the receiver.

‘Do you want me?… Answer me, Milène, I beg you.'

‘I'm waiting for you, Leonid.'

‘I love you.'

‘So do I.'

On Tuesday 2 April, Colonel Leonid Mikhaïlovitch reported to the airport police at Heathrow and asked for political asylum in Britain. He was taken to London. For three days, he replied to questions from members of the British secret service, who verified his statements and granted his request. No senior Soviet military officer had ever defected to the West before. Normally, the British and French press would have run this story of a defector on the front page. Instead, the story was given five lines in the news-in-brief column on the inside pages. The few editors who considered devoting an article to the matter decided against it and wondered whether, by any chance, it might be a ruse by the Soviet secret services. Leonid had not chosen the best moment. On 5 April 1951, a civil court in New York State sentenced Ethel and Julius Rosenberg to death for spying on behalf of the USSR. This conviction provoked horror and indignation all over the world. There were thousands of demonstrations to protest against this legal farce, a grim mirror of the Moscow trials, but the international protests were powerless to prevent two innocent people being electrocuted.

In the DC4 that was taking off for Paris, Leonid was not thinking of the Rosenbergs because he had never heard of them, but rather of Dimitri Rovine, who was rotting in a Siberian prison camp. He was annoyed with himself for not having tried to help his friend. He tried to persuade himself that it would have been pointless. Dimitri's face disappeared, blotted out by Milène's. They say it is not necessary to be certain of success in order to begin something, and it's a profound truth. Things that are a matter of conviction and hope are beyond all logic. When a man achieves his dream, there is neither reason, nor failure, nor victory. What is most important in the Promised Land is not the land, but the promise.

16

C
écile had read the letter by the window. A torn page from a spiral notebook, written with a blue ballpoint pen in a sloping hand. For five interminable minutes, she had stood gazing into space. The letter had slipped from her hands. She had picked it up and handed it to me without appearing to be upset. She was unexpectedly calm.

‘I'm going to make us some coffee.'

I'd arrived at about half past seven in the morning. I hadn't rung the bell. I'd used my bunch of keys. She was asleep, curled up on the sofa in the sitting room. I'd sat down on the floor, facing her. I stared at her, not daring to wake her. Eventually, she had opened one eye and hadn't been surprised to see me there. I'd left the envelope on the sofa without saying a word.

Cécile,

You know I don't like writing so I won't be long. You mustn't expect anything of me. I'm off. I'm leaving without you. Without telling you to your face. As usual. A few days ago, you'd persuaded me to stay. It was nice to think of our future and that we were going to leave this war behind. I wanted to talk to you at that moment, but there's not going to be any amnesty for what I've done. I don't want to inflict the life I shall have on you. I lied to you. I'm not a hero. Would that I were.

I met a young Algerian, a Kabylian girl. She was employed at the barracks canteen. I feel wretched writing to you about this. I know the pain I'm going to cause you. Djamila's family didn't want us to see one another. She became pregnant. We decided to run away together. But in this country, that's not possible. It's forbidden. Her father forced her to go to their village in the djebel. When I went to see the French authorities, they told me that he was entitled to do this. I had to keep quiet about it. They had better things to
do than bother about my little problems. I didn't agree. I decided to go and search for her. I deserted. I lived like a dog. I managed to find her. We were captured near Tlemcen. We were hiding in an abandoned village. We were waiting for the right moment to cross into Morocco. The simoom started to blow and when we saw them, it was too late. They caught us on the road to Oujda. We had no papers. They wanted to take us to the checkpoint. I had no choice. When a young conscript wasn't paying attention, I seized the opportunity to grab his machine-gun. Why the fuck was this little captain bothering about us? He should have let us go. He could see we weren't terrorists. He ordered his harkis to arrest us but they didn't move. He walked over to disarm me. I yelled at him to stop. He was about to pick up his FM. I fired. The guys from the patrol fired back. I got another one. Djamila was wounded. They took her away. I escaped. I should have told you before. I couldn't bring myself to do so.

I'm being called, I must go.

Franck

I found Cécile in the kitchen sitting in front of a bowl of steaming coffee. I sat down opposite her. I put the letter on the table. I poured myself some coffee and some milk. I waited for it to cool. We stayed there, in the half-light, with Franck in between us. We didn't know what to say about Franck because his escape had deadened us and crushed us. I looked at her. Was she thinking of him? Perhaps not. What does one do at such moments? One ought to express what one feels and what one thinks. I felt nothing and I thought of nothing. I don't believe Cécile did either. I don't know how long we remained like that. I didn't look at my watch. We said nothing. I stood up. Cécile didn't move. I left.